


Have Yourself A Merry Little (Head For) Christmas

by WhatLocked



Series: Established [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Frotting, Jolly Holly Sex, M/M, Shrunken Heads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 16:21:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5504546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John had told Sherlock that he should try and get into the Christmas spirit, this wasn’t what he was really talking about.</p><p>I blame this on the discovery channel!!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Have Yourself A Merry Little (Head For) Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little Christmas porn, all wrapped up and under the Christmas tree, just for you, my lovely readers. I hope you all have a very merry Christmas indeed, unless, of course, you don’t celebrate Christmas, in which case, I hope you have a happy 25th of December! Enjoy ;)

~~~~~~~~~~

“Oh, god.  Not again.”  

John ignored the desperate anguish behind him as Sherlock stepped into the living room, continuing, instead, to hang the baubles on the white pine he had had delivered earlier that morning.  In the background Frank Sinatra crooned about chestnuts roasting on an open fire, John humming along quietly rather than answer Sherlocks expected complaints.

“Why, John?” the other man whined.  “Did lasts years exploding pudding and flaming mistletoe teach you nothing?”

John stopped his humming and looked over his shoulder at his partner with raised eyebrows.  “Yes” he answered.  “It taught me that Molly is never allowed to bake for us again and that we need to have at least three, if not four, fire extinguishers just in the communal areas alone.”  Ignoring Sherlocks _hrmph_ of irritation John turned back to the Christmas tree that was almost completed.  He wanted to get as much as the flat decorated, before he went to bed, as possible as he was leaving for a week in the morning, to go see his sister for the holidays.  “It also taught me that you are irrationally scared of cherry stalks and scream like a teenage girl.”  The grin on his face was clearly audible in his words, as was Sherlocks sneer conveyed perfectly in his following retort.

“I am not _scared_ of cherry stalks.  I just wasn’t aware of what you had thrown at me and I wasn’t exactly in the best frame of mind” the grinch behind John spat as he stomped off muttering something about Mrs Hudson’s mulled wine and a recipe from the devil itself.  

John just chuckled and continued to deck the flat in boughs of holly….and tinsel….and fairy lights, along with anything else that looked to have a festive feel.  The skull joined in by sporting a red felt Santa hat made by their equally as festive landlady, ‘ _happy about the whole thing’_ , John thought, ‘ _if the grin he is wearing is anything to go by_.’

~o~

“I will be back in five days” John informed Sherlock as he double checked that his train ticket was in his pocket, along with his wallet and keys.  “If you need me, call me” he instructed, placing his phone in his jacket pocket as he looked over to the couch where the receiving half of the conversation was lying, glaring daggers at the holly wrapped around the bisons headphones.  “And don’t burn down the Christmas tree, or chop it into tiny pieces, or see what the effects of corrosive liquids have on it.  In fact, don’t touch it at all.”  John was now standing over 6 foot of detective, stretched out onto 5 foot 8 of leather couch.  “Promise me the house will still look Christmas-y when I get back.”

Sherlock tore his death glare away from the bovine skull hanging on the wall and looked up to John, his glare softening into something more like mild irritation.  

“But it’s Christmas.  A consumerised, mis…”

“…interpreted pagan tradition” John finished for him, squatting down next to Sherlock and gently carding his fingers through his hair, “and the music is appalling, I know” John quoted back to the man before him with a fond grin.  “But I haven’t seen Harry in over six months and the quickest way to get her to stop nagging is to go see her.  She did extend her invitation out to you, there is still time…”

  
“No” Sherlock spat quickly, and John didn’t blame him, not after his first, and last, attempt to introduce the two to each other.  At least Harry had offered to pay the cafe’ for replacement blinds and Sherlocks hair had grown back perfectly.

“I will just stay here and pretend that our flat doesn’t look like a confused, mis-understood, pagan/multi-beliefed fairy exploded in it.”

John leant down and placed a quick kiss on Sherlocks lips.  “That’s the spirit.  I’ll be back on the 24th, if things go horribly, maybe even sooner. Don’t destroy anything and, I don’t know, try and get into the Christmas spirit.  You never know.  You might like it” John finished with a grin, and with one final kiss he departed 221B Baker Street, leaving Sherlock frowning over the concept of _Christmas Spirit_.

~o~

Sherlock rubbed ash into the boiled and heat dried skin, admiring his work as he did so.  After twelve attempts he was certain that he had shrinking heads down to a fine art.  This one, along with the three that proceeded it, were perfect.  The tiny little cat face stared back at him with eyes sewn shut, all grey and surprisingly smooth looking.  Gently he placed it in the box with the other eleven and made a start on packing away his supplies, leaving the box of hot sand and rocks on the stove top to cool down.  

If a case should come up involving shrunken heads he was now adequately informed of the process and theory behind the practice.  With any luck the case would be as interesting as the ritual.

Just as he was shoving the large pot he had used to boil the cat heads in back under the cupboard a familiar “ _woohoo_ ” sounded at the door and Mrs Hudson bustled in carrying a tray of what smelt like mince pies.  

After uttering a greeting and offering the fruity pastries she wrinkled her nose.  “It still smells a bit funny in here Sherlock, are you still, you know…” and her hand waved in the general direction of the oven and sink.

Picking up a pie and shoving half of it into his mouth Sherlock shook his head.  “All of my heads are shrunk” he informed her around a mouthful of food.  “And I cleaned up” he announced proudly.  Mrs Hudson looked around at the usual mess that accumulated when John wasn’t around, but didn’t have the heart to tell the man that it looked like nothing had changed.  Instead she looked towards the box on the bench by the fridge.

“Would you like to see?” Sherlock asked, noting the direction of Mrs Hudsons gaze.  She was about to protest when, in two long, quick strides, Sherlock was grabbing the box and moving towards her, gently tipping the contents of the box onto a clear space on the table.  Before her sat a dozen oval shaped little faces, all approximately 1.3 inches long.  Some were bald, others had a spattering of fur, they ranged in colour from grey to black to dark brown.  Some had beads sewn into the eyes, while others had little wooden pegs holding eyelids and lips (did cats even have lips?) shut.  They were truly horrible.

“You didn’t, you know…all of them” Mrs Hudson asked, trying to sound interested, but worried that her tenant had taken a distinct dislike to the strays that hung around every now and then.

Sherlock scowled at her.  “Of course not.  Sociopath, not psychopath” Sherlock reminded her with a  wave of his hand.  “No, a veterinarian I helped out a few years ago gave them to me.  Euthanised cats, owners didn’t want the remains.  Happened to run into him the other day, just after Molly refused to let me bring anything home from the morgue.  If I believed in fate….” He let the sentence hang.

Mrs Hudson continued to stare down at the tiny feline heads.  “What will you do with them?” She asked.

Sherlock shrugged.  “I don’t know.  Maybe string them together, hang them over the fire place.  It’d be a damn site better than that ridiculous tinsel that is currently there.”

Mrs Hudson looked towards the fire place and then back to the heads.  “Well, they’re not very Christmas - y, are they” she worried, envisioning having to look at all twelve of these things every time she came up to the flat, not that they were any worse than what already adorned the walls and shelves of flat B. “And after John has made the place look so festive as well.”

Mrs Hudson didn’t miss the small sniff of disdain at the word _festive_ nor did she miss the sickly sweet, and obviously false smile, that proceeded said sniff.  “Oh, I don’t know Mrs Hudson, I think that they could fit in very nicely with a few small additions.” And somehow, Martha Hudson felt she had just been pulled into some bizarre decorating scheme.

~o~

God, was John happy to be home.  Five days with Harry was definitely four days too many, but at least when he had left no one was broken or crying.  That was always a bonus.  Another bonus was that he was sure that he wouldn’t hear from his sister for at least another six months as five days was enough to remind the both of them just how much they didn’t get on.

“I’m home” he announced as he walked into the flat, brushing the light dusting of the newly developed snow out of his hair.

A semi enthused “hmmm” answered from the kitchen so John headed in that direction.  What he saw was Sherlock hunched over his microscope, three petri dishes sporting some rather dull shades of yellow, brown and grey spread out before him.  

“I can see I was highly missed” he murmured, placing a kiss on Sherlocks head as he moved through the kitchen, towards their bedroom.  Another “hmmm” followed him, this one just as enthused as the last one.

John dumped his bag on the bed and made his way back out to the kitchen, making a b-line straight for the kettle.  
“I see the tree is still in one piece” he observed happily, looking through the door as the kettle filled with water.  There was no answer, not that he expected there to be one.

Once two cups of tea was made, one placed in front of the detective, John made his way, mug in hand, to the living room and settled into his armchair, ready to read through the paper that was currently sitting on the coffee table.  As he reached over to grab the folded tabloid something caught his attention, just out of the corner of his eye.  

Turning his head John was met by a sight that was equal parts unexpected and disturbing, but somehow not surprising.  Above the fire place, in a perfectly measured inverted arch shape, were twelve shrivelled little heads, strung on a piece of thin green tinsel, all wearing little red Santa hats.  The faces on these heads were grotesque, with dried out skin and sewn orifices, some eyes and mouths even pegged shut.  Some had hair (or fur, it was hard to tell) while others were completely bald.  John didn’t need to get up and inspect the display closer or have to feel the little heads to know that they were all organic.  Apart from the tinsel and the hats there was nothing man made about the decoration.  Those heads were real, although John was unable to tell what they were.

“I see you kept yourself busy while I was gone” was all he could manage to say, knowing that Sherlock would explain sooner or later.  He wouldn’t be able to help himself.

Sherlock waited for John to tell him to take them down, but after a few minutes of silence Sherlocks curiosity and slight confusion got the better of him and he abandoned the bee larvae cultures he had been studying to go join John in their living room.

“Cute hats” John said, taking a sip of his tea, when it was clear that Sherlock was not going to say anything.  “Did you make them yourself?”

“Mrs Hudson” was Sherlocks simple reply.

After another minute of Sherlock staring at John and John staring at the twelve new residents of 221B Baker Street, John could no longer keep silent.

“What exactly are they?” he finally asked.

“Cats” was Sherlocks, again, very simple reply.

“Cats” John repeated distantly.  Finally he managed to tear his glance away from the cat heads and looked to Sherlock.  

“They were small cats then?” he asked, not sure if he wanted to know where Sherlock got twelve cat heads from, nor where the rest of the cats were.

“Standard size for the common domestic breed that inhabits London homes.”

"So, these cats belong to people, then?” John asked, wondering if Sherlock had taken the term ‘ _cat burglar_ ’ up to a literal level.

“Belonged” Sherlock corrected. “An associate of mine, a vet, gave them to me after they had been put down.  I was bored and Molly refused me entry to the labs” Sherlock pouted at the thought of Molly being uncooperative. Maybe next time he should not comment on the slight wrinkles around her eyes.

John only felt slightly relieved at this information, knowing that Sherlock hadn’t been stealing peoples cats and killing them to break his boredom.  But it still left a lot of unanswered questions.  One question being, “Why are they so small?”

“Because I shrunk them” Sherlock explained eagerly.  “I was reading up on the process a couple of months ago, and it was all terribly fascinating, and when Conner offered me these cats I knew exactly what I was going to do with them, since it figured it would probably be a lot not good if I actually used a human head, although the results would have been far better.  It took the better part of the four days you were gone to complete all twelve heads, but by the time I hit number nine I had had the process perfected, as you will see with heads one, four, seven and twelve” he beamed pointing out the cats as he rattled them off.    

John made a mental note not to leave any articles on mummification laying around the house.

“And the hats?” John asked, clearly still not sure why Mrs Hudson had agreed to make hats for the newest addition to the _weird_ that adorned flat B.

“I do believe you said something about getting into the Christmas spirit before you left.  You were right, it was quite enjoyable.”

John inhaled slowly.  He really wanted to remove the garish garland but Sherlock had genuinely seemed very enthused about the whole experiment and he had gone out of his way to make them look festive… _ish_.  Even if this wasn’t quite what he meant by getting into the Christmas spirit he couldn’t fault the man on trying, and really, he couldn’t expect anything different, not knowing who he was dealing with.

“You don’t like them” Sherlock stated.  He wasn’t upset about the observation, but John still couldn’t find it in him to say that they were disturbingly horrid, so he went with, “Not quite what I meant by getting into the Christmas spirit, but I suppose they will grow on me.” And it was probably true.  Since knowing Sherlock John had become accustomed to many things that would send most people off screaming.  Body parts in the fridge, insects in the sugar, waking up to find six leaches attached to various parts of your body.  Really, twelve shrunken cat heads were nothing.

“Too bad if they don’t” said Sherlock, standing up and walking over to John.  Slowly he sunk down to straddled Johns thighs, his knees resting on the seat of the arm chair, either side of Johns legs.  “It’s your fault that they are there in the first place.”

Johns eyebrows rose at that as he stared up at the man that had settled quite comfortably on his lap. “And how do you figure that?” he asked as Sherlock started unbuttoning John's top.

“Because you went away for five days” Sherlock sighed, his hands moving deftly down the shirt, releasing each button in quick succession.  “And I needed a distraction from the boredom of not having you here to entertain me.”

“Judging by the twelve heads hanging above our fireplace you seemed to do a fine enough job of doing so” John replied watching Sherlocks fingers undo his buttons and push his shirt open.

Sherlock frowned, as he always did when confronted with the layers that John insisted on wearing and pushed the shirt off of his shoulders so he could pull the undershirt up over Johns head, not caring where either item of clothing ended up.  

“It was a poor substitute” Sherlock growled, lowering his head and attaching his mouth to Johns neck.  A soft, contented hum vibrated in the back of John’s throat as he tilted his head to give Sherlocks mouth more room to work, and work it did, tasting the skin under John’s ear and travelling up to his jaw, taking in the different textures of smooth skin as it blended into that which was sporting the first hints of stubble. 

As his mouth worked over Johns jaw and neck, his fingers worked over his nipples, pinching and rolling and stroking, causing Johns breath to hitch.

In return he started on Sherlocks buttons, needing to feel the skin under the shirt.

Once all of the buttons were undone John pushed Sherlocks shirt to the ground and pulled the longer body against his own.  Sherlock was hard and warm against his own bare skin and Johns hands never seemed to tire of running over every inch of him that he could reach, which is what they did as Sherlock brought his mouth back down to Johns, biting and sucking on his bottom lip.  John pushed forward, snaking his tongue into Sherlocks mouth, trying to take charge of the kiss.  This in turn caused Sherlock to kiss back harder not wanting to give over control.  

Minutes slipped by, which felt like hours, as the two men kissed and bit and licked, hands running over bare skin and fingers tugging on hair.  The slick sound of lips moving against each other filled the room, accompanied by the huffs of heavy breathing and the soft whisper of wool moving on denim as Sherlock rutted against John, desperate for more.

“Bedroom” John managed to get out between kisses, but Sherlock had other ideas.

“Too far” he growled, pulling John up off of his chair and then pushing him back down onto the ground in front of the fire place.  John was about to protest the hard wooden floor but before his complaints could start, they were cut off by Sherlock standing over him, seductively removing the rest of his clothes.  John’s mouth watered at the sight, of Sherlocks long, pale body, unmarred and fucking gorgeous.  Sherlocks hands moved across his body, slowly rubbing over his nipples.

“Johnnn” Sherlock purred as one of his hands started to move slowly down his body.  John didn’t answer in favour of watching that hands journey.  “You still have far too many clothes on.”

John was only vaguely aware of the fact that he may possibly be drawling as he watched those long fingers encircle Sherlocks very erect penis.  Slowly the hand started to stroke up and then down, only to stop.

“John” Sherlock said softly again.  John finally tore his eyes away from Sherlocks hand and looked the younger man in the eyes.

“Strip” was the only thing Sherlock said, and after a few very slow seconds the meaning behind that one word sunk in.  Quickly, John scrambled to remove his shoes and socks and then his jeans and pants, throwing the unwanted items of clothing into unknown locations.

Once John was sitting there naked, Sherlock stepped forward and lowered himself down to the ground, straddling Johns thighs.

They resumed their kiss, this time going slower, enjoying the taste of each other and the slide of lips against lips and tongues against tongues.  Sherlock began stroking himself again, slowly, just feeling the pleasure beginning to build in his lower abdomen.  Johns hand sunk down to join his, pulling his own cock into the action.

Suddenly the kiss became more heated as the two men arched against each other, their hips rutting forward, seeking more pressure.  

“I don’t think I will last too long” Sherlock gasped between kisses.  “I didn’t touch myself once while you were gone.”

John moaned into the kiss, the pressure of his hand around their cocks increasing which in turn pulled a rough groan from Sherlock as his head dropped onto Johns shoulder.  Together they increased the speed of their hands, skin running over soft skin and hard flesh.  John knew Sherlock was close when his breaths started coming in small gasps and his thrusting hips lost their rhythm.  It was only a few more strokes before his body tensed as his orgasm rolled through him, his body arching back as ribbons of come spilled over their joined fists, coating Johns stomach in the warm fluid.  Johns hand stroked him a few more time, pulling every drop of ejaculate out of him, before he let go and started working solely on his own cock, but again, Sherlock had other ideas.  

Without a word, he pulled Johns hand away from his penis and gently pushed John back so he was laying down.  Then he leant over John and sucked the tip of his cock into his mouth, a mixture of John and himself coating his taste buds.

Sherlocks tongue ran around the head of Johns cock twice before he sucked it into his mouth, eliciting a deep moan from John as he curled strands of Sherlock’s hair around his fingers.

For a while Sherlock focused only on the head of Johns cock, tonguing the slit and grazing his teeth gently over the corona before suckling the glans again.  

For now, John was happy with this as it felt really, _really_ good. 

As Sherlock worked over the head with his lips and tongue John stroked his hair, letting out breathy moans and gasps when something felt particularly good.

Pulling off of John Sherlock started to mouth his way down Johns shaft with open mouthed kisses, not stopping once he reached the base.  Instead his mouth continued further down, laving attention to his testicles, sucking each one into his mouth, rolling his tongue around the small orbs, pulling tiny, desperate cries from Johns mouth as his hips tried to push down in an attempt to get closer to Sherlocks mouth,  before licking his way back up to the tip of John’s cock.  There he sucked the head back into his mouth, not stopping until he had swallowed half of John’s length.  

By now John was gasping, his hips stuttering as he restrained himself from thrusting further into Sherlocks mouth, but Sherlock was in no hurry to finish things up just yet.  

He continued his slow sucking and licking, paying attention to the top half of Johns penis, savouring the taste of skin and sweat and pre-come, and revelling in the small noises he was pulling out of his partner.  

A broken “ _Sherlock_ ” was dragged out of John’s mouth as Sherlock applied enough pressure and speed to get him frustrated, but not enough to pull him over the edge.  Sherlock ignored Johns pleading and continued his lazy ministrations.  

Sherlock pulled off of John’s cock once more, a whimper sounding from the man below him, and he sucked two of his own fingers into his mouth, his tongue working around and between the two digits, coating them both in an over adequate amount of saliva.  Pulling his fingers from his mouth he placed his lips back around John’s cock and continued where he left off, his fingers moving down to John’s entrance as he sucked half of Johns length into his mouth in one swallow.  

As he worked one finger into John he worked his mouth further down John’s shaft, his nose burying in Johns coarse pubic hair as his finger pushed all the way in to his arse.

A loud cry left Johns mouth as his back arched when the head of his cock hit the back of Sherlocks throat.  Sherlock held it there, restricting his throat around the organ that was halfway down his throat, the same time he bent his finger forwards.  

The noise that left Johns throat this time was savage and animalistic.  It was load and raw and Sherlock pulled his mouth back, just as Johns hips pushed forward.

“Fuck….Sherlock” the shorter man panted as Sherlock picked up a steady rhythm, bobbing his head up and down Johns cock in time with the finger thrusting into his arse, occasionally stopping to take John all the way into his throat or to find his prostate again.

John was no longer holding back.  His hips thrust forward and his hand pressed hard into the back of Sherlocks head as Sherlocks mouth continued to work over his cock, up and down, sucking and licking every now and then lightly biting as a second finger joined the first in Johns backside.  

Grunts and moans and gasped expletives left John’s mouth as the pleasure built up in his body.  His fingers scrabbled for purchase in Sherlocks thick curls, gripping tight as his back arched as he pulsed into Sherlock’s mouth, his body trembling as his orgasm washed through him, travelling at high speed, wrecking everything in its path.

With a few more smaller sucks Sherlock pulled his fingers out of Johns arse and his mouth off of John’s cock, licking away any missed semen before moving back up Johns body where he curled around the smaller form, pulling him as close as possible.

“Merry Christmas, John” Sherlock murmured as he nuzzled his nose against the crown of John’s head.

John snuggled closer to his mad, mad man, turning, just a bit, so he could wrap his arm around Sherlocks waist.  “Merry Christmas” he replied, his eyes drooping shut.

Outside the wind blew the snow in a gentle flurry, the tiny flakes silently battering against the windows.  Inside, the fire continued to crackle, warming the two occupants who were now snuggled, sleeping underneath the alpaca wool blanket that normally draped over the back of John’s chair and above that fire hung twelve small heads wearing little red felt hats, adding to the Christmas spirit that filled 221 B baker Street.


End file.
